


(step one) light me on fire

by RedThistle



Series: in fact [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Banner Angst, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Captivity, Dehumanization, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, In a way, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Kinda, Merchant of Death Tony Stark, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Obadiah Stane is shit, POV Bruce Banner, Pre-Iron Man 1, Probably slightly OOC oops, Thaddeus Ross is a dick, The Author Regrets Everything, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has A Heart, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 01:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedThistle/pseuds/RedThistle
Summary: “I don’t know if you remember— you seemed pretty out of it back there- Ross basically gave you to me. According to your file, you’re a bright man, so I’m sure you already knew that by now. Pieced the clues together and whatnot.” A twisted grin flashed across the billionaire's face. “I’m supposed to train you using whatever fucked up method I prefer.”Stark paused, eyes narrowed as if scrutinizing Bruce before continuing, “However, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. It's been a while since I wrote anything, but welcome to "(step one) light me on fire"
> 
> This was requested (kinda) after my May 2018 writing prompts where I wrote an AU in which Tony Stark buys Bruce Banner from the army. (Yes, it messes with the timeline of the Incredible Hulk a bit, but bear with me.)
> 
> I've been promising this for a long time. I wrote the first like...three chapters as one giant chapter before deciding that wasn't a good idea and that I was going to publish the big chapter in little ones. 
> 
> After the events of Infinity War and Endgame, it kinda hurts to write this, oops. 
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this first chapter around July of last year. I hope you enjoy regardless. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. Make sure to check the notes for CWs
> 
> CW: Dehumanization, slavery(?), electrocution, and Thaddeus Ross being a dick

Bruce had been violently awoken that morning with a prod to the side, moved from his cage in the lab, and thrown into the “holding cell.” This was not a regular occurrence. However, he knew he was in trouble the moment that Tony Stark— the Merchant of Death as Ross often and affectionately referred to him as— came walking through the glass doors. Bruce hated the glass doors. He could see freedom down the white, lit hallways, yet it was never obtainable. It may have caused him a bit of spite to see Ross and his soldiers and his scientists go and come as they pleased when they kept him in a _crate_ for a _dog._ They gave him a newspaper to do his business on and kept a shock collar around his neck for when he “misbehaved.” 

It was the same shock collar that they currently had turned up to the highest voltage it could be without causing Bruce to pass out. Whether he was shocked or not was completely dependent on his heart rate, for the time being.

“ _This_ is the weapon?” 

The suited man’s disbelief bled through his voice as he took one look at Bruce, who was curled in a ball in the corner, pushing down his panic with the blandest look he could manage on his face.

“It wasn’t always like this.” _It._ Ross called him it like he wasn’t a person. Bruce hated that. “Used to be an arrogant, brainiac piece of shit,” Ross continued, a grin stretching across his face. “Then it turned itself into a monster on its own accord. Technically, it was a military drug used, therefore it’s military property.”

Stark didn’t waste a second. “Slavery is illegal.”

“Enslavement of a _human_ is illegal,” Ross fired back, not missing a beat. The grin didn’t move an inch. “ _It_ is not a human. Don’t be fooled by its facade. If we were to let it out of here, it would destroy this whole base. Our problem is that it’s unpredictable. Uncontrollable. We just need you to fix it.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “And how do you expect me to do that?”

“Train the monster! I don’t know-give it a microchip and a remote control, maybe.” Ross laughed and Stark let out a dry, somewhat sardonic, chuckle.

“Wouldn’t that be a nice experiment, General,” was all the suited man said, and Bruce couldn’t help but flinch. Dark eyes slid over in his direction momentarily before returning to Ross.

“So. What’s the damage to your bank account?”

Ross handed Stark sheet of paper. Stark’s eyebrows rose. Bruce’s heart sank.

“Okay...what have you tried?” The General handed Ross another piece of paper.

“None of these have worked. They made it more scared of us- ” Bruce was not _scared._ He just knew that there were risks to take in fighting. Sometimes it wasn’t worth it. Sometimes it wasn’t worth getting shocked so hard that he pissed his pants. Wasn’t worth getting tranqed, wasn’t worth getting the muzzle. Not when it all led to the same lab table anyway, with the same routines that went absolutely nowhere. 

(Bruce knew Ross wouldn’t get another Other Guy without his help. He could take all the blood he wanted, but the blood would just be poisonous. Ross didn’t want to acknowledge it.)

Stark was silent for a moment. Bruce realized he had lost the second half of Ross’ statement. “Right. I’ll do it. Load hi- it up for me.”

Ross smirked a little, then gestured to a pair of his soldiers. “Show Mr. Stark the equipment,” he ordered, then to another pair, he said, “Come with me.”

As the two led Stark away, Ross’ smirk only grew. “Finally going to get what you’re due, ey Banner? You thought your time here was bad...you have no idea, you little shit.”

Bruce didn’t reply, rather spitting at Ross. That wiped the smirk off his face quickly, even as Bruce’s mind devolved into red-hot pain. 

He woke up once, mind fuzzy as they loaded him onto the plane. He was restrained, and the muzzle was tight around his jaws. 

“Is this necessary?” he faintly heard Stark ask. Ross replied something about radioactive spit. Bruce wished his spit was radioactive. Then when he nailed Ross in the face, it would actually hurt the bastard. He listened for a few more minutes, hearing Ross explain the collar controls. He was not expecting for the collar to suddenly turn to full voltage and he seized, eyes flying open as he let out a screech of pain that only lasted for a second as the Other Guy roared in his head and everything went from red to white to green to black.

When he awoke once more, he was in a clear, glass, tank of sorts. He had no idea if this was just his holding space or intended to be his new home. Outside the tank appeared to be a half-assembled lab. Bruce pointedly ignored it. A quick examination of his cell space showed a bed with pillows and a blanket, a few books that Bruce would never touch, a chute of some sort (probably gas one), and...an actual toilet and a sink. 

Bruce stared at them with awe, walking over to them slowly. Did he dare touch the cold white porcelain of both objects? He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to drink from something that wasn't the dirty water of a three minute shower. 

(Or the water that he had accidentally inhaled when they waterboarded him. They didn’t do that as much anymore. Why exert yourself when you could just subdue someone with electricity?) 

He brushed a finger over the silver faucet of the sink, completely entranced. 

“Like it?” 

Bruce leapt away from the sink so quickly, one might think it had burned him. Stark's presence had surprised him. The man must have entered while his back was turned...and ultimately seen him admiring the objects. Bruce silently resigned himself to never seeing them again. He should have known better than to show an outward positive expression towards something, particularly something in his cell.

If this was his cell, anyways. If it wasn't, then at least he wouldn't have to feel bad about ruining his chance for appliances on the first day. 

Stark was staring at him. Bruce realized he had never answered the question. He shook his head in an obvious lie, pointedly not looking at his two water sources. Stark continued staring at him.

“Bummer. I got it out of the trash though, so you can keep it,” the engineer said with a flippant wave of his hand, approaching the tank. Bruce didn’t move, watching through wary brown eyes. Sometimes he wished if he stayed still long enough, no one would be able to see him. He’d been wishing that for too long now.

“Well, I’d introduce myself, but you already know who I am. Or, you should. You haven’t been locked up for that long have you?” The question was rhetorical, Bruce thought. Or at least he hoped it was. Stark moved closer to the cell. He had an air of confidence that made Bruce bristle. His new captor had no hint of remorse or guilt, neither in his body language nor in his voice. Just like Ross. 

“I don’t know if you remember— you seemed pretty out of it back there- Ross basically gave you to me. According to your file, you’re a bright man, so I’m sure you already knew that by now. Pieced the clues together and whatnot.” A twisted grin flashed across the billionaire's face. “I’m supposed to train you using whatever fucked up method I prefer.”

Bruce forced himself to keep breathing. He knew it was coming. He didn’t need to show his dislike.

“However,” Stark paused, eyes narrowed as if scrutinizing Bruce before continuing, “I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.” _No._ “Prove yourself to be...good, I guess. Show you can control your monster and I won’t sell you to the army.” _No._

Stark was worse than Ross already. At least Ross hadn’t lied to instill some sort of false hope in him. Ross had been straightforward. _“I’m going to make more monsters with your blood, Banner.”_

Stark was still talking. “I mean, when I say it like that, it makes me sound like an awful person. Worse than usual, anyway. But I just can’t let a dangerous man with a large weapon and no control run around in populated areas.”

“You let Ross do it.” The retort slipped out from Bruce’s mouth a bit more spiteful than he had intended it to. Then again, he hadn’t meant for it to slip out at all.

Stark’s countenance seemed to brighten a bit. “Oh, you _can_ talk. Touché. Something tells me I’ll like you,” was all Stark said instead of turning the voltage of his collar so high he would piss himself. 

It was then Bruce realized he wasn’t even wearing a collar. Therefore, there was no way that could happen. Emboldened by this realization, he managed, “Something tells me you won’t keep your word.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Banner, have you seen your price tag? You’re worth a lot, but trust me, I keep my word.”

_They’re going to turn you into a weapon. Gain your trust and turn you into a weapon. Brainwash you and turn you into a weapon. And there’s nothing you can do about it._

Stark had no power over him. Nothing to hold over his head like the army did with Betty’s death, though his compliance didn’t last. _(It wasn’t what Betty would have wanted. Was it? More violence, death, blood-)_ He was a monster, but he didn’t want to be caged. He didn’t want to be owned by anyone, like a pet. But he was. And if he didn't bend to Stark’s will eventually, Stark would drop the nice facade. Wouldn’t it just be better to at least pretend that this wasn’t going to end with him on a lab table, one way or another?

“It’s always money, isn’t it?” were the first words that escaped his mouth after those thoughts. “And it’s never worth it.” _If-_ “When you sell me back?”

“Yeah?”

“Donate it somewhere. I know you like your blood money, but I’m asking you to do this. Maybe give it to one of the places the Ross uses us to go on a rampage. To win another pointless war. To kill civilians, since the Other Guy doesn’t know the difference between enemies and innocents and he sees all people as cruel. To whichever few survivors there will be, give them money to deal with their grief and loss because money can gloss over all your problems if you throw enough of it at them, right Stark?”

The other man was stiff as a board, bristling, anger drawn across his features. Insulted. “And what right do you have to say that?” he growled. 

Bruce just let out a sardonic chuckle and shrugged passively. “None, Stark. I have no rights.”

Rather than a snarky remark, silence met his answer. Stark stood there, jaw squared like he wanted to say something, but kept deciding against it. Bruce forced himself to keep contact with the intense dark brown eyes. It felt as if Stark was trying to stare him into submission. A bright jingle startled the both of them, the engineer jumping a little as Bruce flinched, backing away from the glass, instinctively reaching for his collar. Stark’s phone was the culprit and he picked up, turning his back to Bruce as he speed-walked out of the room with a loud, “Obie!”

It felt like a fight Bruce won, but he wasn’t sure what he had been fighting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to make updates semi-frequent.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are not necessary, but they do really make my day, so they would be much appreciated.
> 
> Also special thanks to BookWerm if they read this for being awesome
> 
> -Red


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't feel particularly good about this chapter. I don't think it's a good chapter, nor do I feel like it ends on a good note. It was originally much longer, but it just didn't make sense for me to have a 3000-4000 word chapter when the rest of my chapters will probably be 2000 tops. 
> 
> So...yeah. This chapter exists. I guess. 
> 
> In other news, I have two chapters already pre-written because I had to cut this one so...yay?
> 
> mild CWs for implied/referenced child abuse (thanks Brian Banner), and a brief/vague description of a panic attack.

Stark didn’t come back for a week after the first day. Bruce spent his time playing with the faucet, ignoring the drugged food that the chute delivered twice a day (it wasn’t a gas chute, he guessed), pretending to sleep, and reading the titles of the books that he never touched.

Bruce couldn’t figure out Stark’s game. If he was trying to drug Bruce, he had a perfectly good food-gas chute. He didn’t have to waste food.

(Though it smelt so good and every time he walked away from the chute, he remembered Ross’ poor excuse of a meal— something that looked and tasted like dog food from a can, watery, tasteless stew, and a dry, stale, biscuit that nearly caused Bruce to choke on multiple occasions. Ross fed him twice a week, and Stark was delivering food every day knowing it was going to waste.)

And at least Ross had made contact every day. Bruce almost felt forgotten.

One day, he was doing one of his favorite activities: pretending to sleep, when Stark walked in, handheld tablet in hand. “Are you ever going to eat?”

Banner opened an eye to look at the goateed man before closing his eye once more.

Apparently, Stark didn’t like that.

“Banner!” There was a sharp knock on the glass that made Bruce grip the covers, sitting up. “Look, you can ignore me and the food all you want, but this is important.” Stark took an inhale, meeting Bruce’s gaze. “I did some digging through your files. Found a mistake. Betsy Ross isn’t dead.”

 _No._ Bruce didn’t know what Stark was playing at nor was he interested in finding out. He shut his eyes as memories he had tried and failed to bury, memories that plagued him in the night rushed to the forefront of his mind.

“Banner, look.” _Don’t look, no. Don’t. Green. Rage. Pain. Gunfire. Screaming. Green. Greengreengreen-_

His voice came out as a pitiful plea. “P-please stop it. I saw her obituary. I went to her funeral, Stark. _I_ killed her.”

Silence...then- “Banner look at me.” It was a command. What would happen if he didn’t follow it? Bruce’s heart was pounding. _“Don’t make me come in there!”_ Stark said, and at the same time, the angered roar of Bruce’s father followed. _(Except that didn’t make sense, his father was dead—)_ The Other Guy screamed in the back of his mind, green rising behind his eyelids as he struggled to keep himself calm. The door opened and Bruce paled.

He couldn’t transform, Not with Stark in the cage. If the Other Guy killed Stark, Bruce would be paying with the army, and after that, death. With ragged breaths, he trembled, both in fear for the well-being of his captor and himself. _Please leave leave leave,_ was the mantra that clawed at his brain, his stomach, and every single part of his being. Stark said something that he didn’t hear. It was covered in static. He faintly heard the door close and he let out a sob of relief, holding himself in a protective position he wasn’t even aware he had shifted into.

“Remember to eat your pancakes,” were Stark’s final words, cutting through the noise in his head.

Bruce didn’t know how long he sat there forcing himself to keep breathing. After what felt like hours, he uncurled himself from his ball, peeking over his shoulder and towards the door. Stark’s tablet lay there, screen lit. Bruce quickly looked away before he could tempt himself.

The longer he sat there, however, the more his curiosity and dread grew. Stark wanted him to look. What would happen if he didn’t?

Always, what if, what if, what if.

Finally, he sucked in a deep breath and got off his bed. His path to the tablet was slow and wary, each tentative step causing his anxiety to grow and the lead in his stomach to solidify further. Within seconds, he was upon it.

He didn’t want to touch it. He was going to touch it anyway. With trembling hands, he picked it up, bringing it close to his face to compensate for his lack of glasses. It didn’t take long for his eyes to be running over the words, searching desperately for any sign that it was fake or photoshopped.

_“Our newest addition to the family! Bruce David Samson.”_

It was Betty and Leonard. A little girl with bright blue eyes — Betty’s eyes— stood cheerfully at Leonard’s side, and in Betty’s arms was a little bundle. A baby. The date read January 15, 2008.

It couldn’t be real. How could it be real? He had killed Betty. Ross had told him he had killed Betty-- why would he lie about his daughter’s death?

Yet, what laid before his eyes told another story.

The man gingerly put the tablet back down, taking in a deep breath. He felt wrecked. Everything he'd known had been a lie. Every moment that he blamed himself, every moment that he thought that maybe Ross was right. Whenever the only thoughts that kept him going were the thoughts of what his mother and Betty would think if he willingly gave into the experiments every time. If he gave them the monster.

Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat, forcing tears that he hadn’t even been aware of back. Then he looked to the corner where he knew the camera was and suddenly felt more bitter than he had felt in a while. He knew what this was.

_Well played, Stark._

He understood the message. If Betty was alive, then she could be used against him if he refused to cooperate. It was almost a complete 180 from Ross. Betty’s death had been held above him for so long, and upon learning that had been a lie, her life was being held above him. She was nothing more than a bargaining chip against him for the series of owners he’d had in his lifetime. Everyone he ever cared about would be, in the end.

Knowing she could be alive was so much more effective than any shock collar or threat of torture he’d ever had. Stark was the merchant of death. Who knew what he’d do to her if he didn’t follow orders?

In just a few days, the man had found a more effective method than Ross had found in months.

_Remember to eat your pancakes._

Banner ate the sedative-laced pancakes. Silently, he hoped he woke up in his bed and not on a lab table.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Bruce still couldn’t figure Stark’s game. It was truly starting to unnerve him. He ate the food Stark provided for him. It wasn’t always drugged, though the second meal nearly always was. Bruce would sleep for what seemed to be about seven hours, then wake up. He'd still be in his cell, have no new scars...he’d just be well-rested. Or was well-rested as one could be when more than half the week they were plagued with nightmares they couldn’t wake from.

Wednesday rolled around, Bruce woke up early in the morning, and Stark was standing outside the glass tank, plate of waffles in hand. Bruce immediately stilled.

“Morning, Banner. How’d you sleep last night?” Stark asked. Silence was his answer. “As talkative as ever, I see.”

They hadn’t talked since that day, a week ago where Bruce had begged Stark to leave him alone. Bruce didn’t intend to talk to Stark more than strictly necessary. There was no reason for him to do so.

The goateed man just shrugged, then typed a code into a keypad. Bruce paled, shifting back under his blanket as if that could protect him.

Dark brown eyes swept over him, then Stark cocked a brow as the door opened. “You’re a curious one, Banner,” he said, placed the plate on the ground, and sat next to it.

The plate wasn’t a direct order to eat, so Bruce didn’t move from his position. He’d eat when Stark left.

But Stark didn’t leave.

_The waiting game._

Stark was trying to see how long it would take before Banner went to collect his food, and the moment he was over there, something was going to happen. He was like the lion who guarded the water hole.

No matter. Bruce was good at playing the waiting game. He’d been playing it since he was a child. (Admittedly, he was much worse at it back then.) Stark would get bored eventually.

He didn’t.

The engineer sat there for hours, humming songs Bruce didn’t recognize as he worked on his tablet. All the while, the door was still wide open. The waffles sure had to be cold by now.

If Stark felt Bruce’s eyes on him, he didn’t say anything.

Finally, the fifth hour dragged around and Stark looked up, meeting the brown eyes that warily gazed at him. “What do you think I’m going to do, Banner?”

Oh, there was so much Stark could do. Bruce was sure that the genius had a lot more creative ideas than he did since all the ones that popped to his mind featured electricity. Stark didn’t look like he was holding some sort of shock device, but it could easily have been miniaturized.

The man just shivered at the thought, pulling his blanket tighter around them.

Stark looked slightly disappointed. “What am I doing wrong?” he muttered quietly. Bruce didn’t think he was supposed to hear that.

Finally, Stark got up, brushed his shirt off, and walked away.

And left the door open.

Panic gripped Bruce as he stared at the space that no longer separated him and one of Stark’s work labs.

The army— Ross— used to do this. They would leave the door open and the moment that Bruce scrambled to the door, a strong, unpleasant shock would be awaiting him, along with laughter.

For a brief moment, the curly-haired man ignored the waffles, choosing to stare at the door with apprehension.

Freedom was tantalizing to any caged beast. He knew he would never have it again. Not since the moment that the Other was born.

Bruce tore his gaze away from the door, despite the sudden clench of his heart. Instead, he went to pick up his cold waffles.

It was all of fifteen minutes from the moment he had left before Stark came back.

“Hey, Banner! All that sitting made me hungry. I’m going to McDonald's. You want anything specific?”

Bruce nearly jumped out of his skin as Stark popped his head into the room. His first thought was that he’d been caught near the door. Then he dropped the plate.

_Oh no._

“Ah...oops. Should’ve seen that coming,” Stark muttered, and took a step in Bruce’s direction that had his fingertips turning green as the prisoner took a wobbly pace back to keep the distance between them.

Stark was going to beat his ass, wasn’t he? What if it all had just been a distraction to have an excuse? _He doesn’t need an excuse, he owns you, Banner._

“No, no- _what’re you doing?_ Don’t step into the glass!”

Stark had raised his voice, obviously angered. Something in his tone spurred Bruce into action, and before he knew what he was doing, he was squeezing underneath his bed. It was a bit of a tight fit, but he had made it.

He couldn’t hear anything over the thrumming of his own heart, so when something— Stark— grabbed his leg and pulled, Bruce let out a yelp and kicked out. Stark dropped his leg just as quickly, and Bruce scrambled back under. His forearms were green, and it was only spreading.

Green flooded his field of vision and Bruce curled in on himself, forcing the shock down and trying to remember how to breathe again. When he opened his eyes again, Stark, the broken glass, and the waffles were gone. He had no idea how much time had elapsed.

The door was nothing but trouble. After he crawled out from under his bed, Bruce forced himself to turn his back to it rather than stare at temptation.

His mind was full of thoughts of what Stark would do to him for that kick. Oddly enough, it was those same thoughts that led him to sleep, shifting and melding into a monstrous nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, thanks for reading this Bruce Banner angstfest.
> 
> God, I need help. I feel like my character motivations are inconsistent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greeting and salutations,
> 
> I'm just going to pretend like I didn't just disappear for...roughly six months and pick up exactly where I left off! I'm extremely tired, my mental health has abandoned me, I'm stressed as hell, but I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS STORY. 
> 
> I kinda hate this chapter, but...yeah. Let's get into it.
> 
>  
> 
> TW: Non-consensual drugging, semi-graphic description of a panic attack, vague references to torture.

Bruce had just awoken from a bad dream when Stark returned. He smelt like grease and fries, though that may have just been the food he was carrying. 

“It was not my intention to...raise my voice like that, or freak you out nor did I mean to make you go green, though I will say it is a nice color on you,” while the dark-haired man chattered, Bruce twisted to glance at him. 

“You were about to step in glass with your bare feet. That would have been extremely painful, and then we’d have an even bigger problem trying to get it out. So, that’s why I yelled. I was not expecting you to get so...spooked. Please accept my peace offering of chicken strips and fries.” Stark pointedly stepped through the open door. 

Then he sat down again. Next to the food. Bruce groaned internally. His discomfort and distrust must have shown on his face in some manner.

“C’mon, Banner. If I was going to hurt you, would I have brought you America’s favorite food?”

“And can you promise you haven’t tampered with it in any way?” the reply tumbled from his mouth unintentionally and Bruce winced, clamping down on the inside of his cheek as his heart accelerated once more. First the kick, now this? He had no right to question his food. At least he was being fed. All Stark had to do was walk out, close the door, and never come back again.

_Do you have a death wish, Banner? Apologize!_

“I-“

“If you say _‘I’m sorry_ ’ I will actually hurt you,” Stark said smoothly, cutting off Bruce. “Come. Sit. I feel we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” 

That may have been the understatement of the century.

“You can bring your blanket if you want,” the man offered, as if Bruce was a two-year-old incapable of going anywhere without a comfort blankie. Bruce considered it for a moment before tersely slipping the blanket off him and taking a few hesitant steps towards Stark. Charcoal eyes watched him, and Bruce couldn’t help but feel as if he was being scrutinized. 

“Come on, you can do it, good Dr. Banner.”

Stark was mocking him, talking in the same sing-song voice that one would talk to a dog in. His hackles raised and he gritted his teeth, feeling the slightest bit of green crash over him. 

“Sheesh, chill, green bean. I was just joking,” Stark put his hands up in a placating manner. “Think about it though— the faster you get here, the faster I leave you alone. And it would be nice if it was a little faster because I have some business to attend to. Not that I was going to show up on time to the meetings anyway. The perks of being a genius billionaire, right?” 

Stark certainly talked enough for the both of them. 

Bruce sat down. Stark scooted closer. Bruce scooted away. Stark scooted closer. Bruce scooted away.

“Alright, now that we’re situated…” the engineer reached into the paper bag and pulled out the food. He slid the paper containers to Bruce, who gave them a surreptitious sniff. He didn’t smell any drugs. 

At some point in his life, Bruce may have said something about being a vegetarian, but he sincerely doubted that the chicken was real meat. And he wasn’t going to ignore food. He’d learned that Ross didn’t care he was a vegetarian, and after being starved on more the one occasion, Bruce stopped caring too. 

So, he eagerly dug in. The taste of grease and salt on his tongue was heavenly, even if it wasn’t the warmest. Now Bruce was one hundred percent confident that the drugs messed up the taste of the food that either Stark or his chefs prepared. Then again, junk food tasted addicting.

“You can tell, can’t you?” Stark asked after a moment of silence. He hadn’t touched his own food. Bruce raised a questioning brow, and Stark clarified. “If the food is drugged. Before you even eat it.” 

Bruce hesitated, then nodded. He hadn’t told Ross about it, but after the accident, some of his senses had become more sensitive than normal. While he still needed glasses, and he considered his touch and taste about the same, it had definitely messed with his sense of smell and hearing. The rest of his "enhancements", he’d had to figure out the hard way: on a lab table.

Stark looked vaguely disturbed. “But you ate the food I gave you anyway.”

Bruce nodded again. “You told me to eat.”

“I-“ Stark cut himself off, an odd mix of understanding and frustration crossing his face. “You didn’t have to.” The words sounded rather weak, or at least Bruce thought they did. 

Bruce stared at him for a moment, ignoring the incredulous laughter that wanted to burst from his stomach. He never knew when Stark would get tired of his disobedience and decide that his nice route was taking too long. Bruce just shrugged and turned his attention to his food. 

Stark moved closer, and while Bruce was aware of this change, he didn’t look up. Rather, he subtly shifted so that his food was covered from the other man, and picked up his pace a little. The other man would probably take the food after the discussion was over, and Bruce wanted to eat as much “quality” food as he could. 

“I only drugged you because you weren’t sleeping properly. I was hoping to wean you off by the end of this week and hopefully get a normal sleep schedule. See how that affected control.”

“You could have just put me on the heavy stuff. I know Ross gave you a few doses. You could easily recreate it. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about control,” was Bruce’s passive response as he placed a few fries in his mouth.

“Well, I do plan on reintroducing you to society, and I figure it’s for the better that you’re not on a drug that tampers your fight or flight ability to just flight or freeze.” 

Stark was still going on about that “redeem yourself” crap, then. 

A small scowl crossed his face. Why was Stark always toying with him? What was the point of it? He already knew how it was going to end, anyway. With him in the army’s possession, and Stark bathing in his blood money. 

“Would you just hurry up and start the experiments, already? I’m sure you could microchip and remote control or whatever. Give Ross what he wanted,” Bruce growled. The engineer stilled.

“Is that what _you_ want?” Stark asked, a tinge of curiosity coloring an otherwise flat tone. 

“I never get what I want, Stark, so does it really matter?” 

Dark eyes seemed to study him for a second, then Stark tutted. “You always been a downer, Banner?”

“Only as long as you’ve been an asshole,” Bruce snapped back. He’d probably regret being so mouthy shortly. At the moment, though, he felt like he was having some problems breathing because what the hell was wrong with him. 

“You wound me, Banner,” was the drawled reply back. “You’re so cold that you make _LN2_ * feel warm.”

The joke may have been funny under different circumstances. 

In the silence, his harsh breathing was audible, the noise bouncing off the walls just to make its way back to his ears. 

There were levels. Insulting Stark from inside his cage while the other man was outside was one thing. Saying a snappy retort while Stark was inside his cage was another. Directly insulting Stark, face to face, with nothing between them except for Bruce’s back was a whole other thing. And he had just done it. 

The obvious answer would be to apologize, but he was not willing to chance Stark’s words from the start of their conversation. 

Stark, as perceptive as ever, picked up on the shift in nature immediately. "Hey," his tone was softer and quieter than anything Bruce had ever heard from him, but maybe that was because he felt like he could barely hear anything over the anxiety that crushed his lungs to nothing more than pathetic wheezes. "What's wrong? I was just kidding around."

"Not. You." _Me. I fucked up._

"Oh. Well, it's not the first time anyone's ever called me an asshole, and it won't be the last."

At the lack of reply, Stark asked: “We good now?"

What were the consequences of a panic attack? It felt like so long since he had had one. This was the consequence of leaving predictably. New owner, new boundaries, new punishment. 

“Are you going green? Talk to me here, buddy. I want to help.” He was reaching towards Bruce, and suddenly he was too close and every nerve screamed at him to hide.

Instead, he managed to quietly croak, "Panic attack." 

Stark looked stricken. "Panic attack?" he echoed. Bruce's head was buzzing so hard that he missed the man's next words. Everything was singled down to the single feeling of _fear_ that tore his insides and churned his stomach and squeezed his throat. 

A hand on his shoulder startled him. He flinched, blinking unshed tears from his eyes. "Banner. Banner. Look at me."

Stark's tone was a soft, yet firm, command. His whiskey-colored gaze was stronger than Bruce had felt in years. "Follow my counts, okay?” 

Suddenly, the other man was reaching out to grab his hand. Bruce flinched. He didn’t like to be touched, obviously. That didn’t stop Stark from placing his broad palm right where the heart of the Merchant of Death was. 

Stark was crazy, but his heartbeat was steady, and even when the other let go of his hand, Bruce found his hand still planted on his chest, counting breaths with closed, teary eyes. The moment it was over, though, Bruce moved his hand so quickly in the opposite direction one might think he had been burned. 

If Stark was insulted by that, he didn’t show it. Instead, he merely stated, that same intense expression on his face, "Ross would have lit you up for all that, huh?"

_Like a Christmas tree._ Bruce just nodded silently. He could hear the cogs turning in the other man's head. He looked to his food so that he didn’t have to look at his captor. Despite this, the shorter brunette felt for nauseous than hungry. 

Of course, the other man was one surprise after another though, wasn’t he?

"Well, unlike Ross,” he spat the name with venom, “I don't need people to stroke my ego all the time. Therefore, you are granted free speech. Without punishment. Actually, no punishment ever.”

A feeling of relief swept over him like a wave. He could feel his shoulders sag, a weight lifted off his back. It was a bold claim. One that Stark probably wouldn’t keep, his brain reminded him. Just another lie to keep him under control, satisfied. Not that he needed those lies. He knew he couldn’t fight Stark, not like the way he resisted Ross, even if he really wanted to. 

The amount of conviction in the other man’s voice, though…

He forced his glee away. The other man was not his friend. He was not a trustworthy person. He was his captor, and his end goal was to be paid. 

_Brtzzz. Brtzzz. Brtzzz._ Stark’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. The engineer reached into his jacket, pulling out the electronic. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered, a frown crawling across his face. “I’m gonna go. Be good, Banner.” He got to his feet, walking out of the room, exclaiming “Thaddeus! How are things, how’s the family?” A pause. “Ouch. Sad to see my friendliness means nothing to you. Let’s talk business, then.”

Bruce watched him go. 

_How’s the family?_

Betty.

_Be good, Banner._

Bruce pushed the remainders of his and Stark’s food to the side and made his way to his bed. 

He would be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *LN2- Liquid nitrogen
> 
>  
> 
> Bruce needs to stop overthinking and that's a big mood.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are not necessary, but they do really make my day, so they would be much appreciated! 
> 
> Sorry I don't get to every one of them, but trust me, I happy screee internally when I see them
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> \- Red


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I'm tired.
> 
> I got dumped today. Please enjoy this chapter more than I enjoyed the week.
> 
>  
> 
> CW: Implied/referenced torture, cringey writing

Bruce honestly should have had nothing to complain about when he was with Stark. Stark was ten times better than Ross in every way. Stark fed him regularly, gave him entertainment in the form of books, provided him with a place to do his business, allowed him to leave his room (the cage) without restraints...the list went on and on. He had even stopped drugging the food like he said he would. 

Recently, Stark had given him a change of clothes. A short-sleeved shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie, all with Stark Industries emblazoned across them. The hoodie was arguably the softest thing that Bruce had ever received, right next to the sweats that came with them. 

Stark also gave him a couch, which was probably supposed to be a bribe for Banner to leave his room. He’d placed it right outside the open, glass door. Bruce had waited until he was gone and then had pushed it into a corner in his room. Stark hadn’t even said anything. 

There were only things that Bruce ever wanted to complain about. Stark’s persistence to bother him every chance he got, and the lab work. Every other day or so, Stark would usher him out of his room. Bruce complied every time, of course. They’d get in the elevator, go to the engineer’s main lab, and Bruce became Stark’s temporary assistant. 

He wasn’t happy about it. Stark was, though. He was eager to work with someone he considered on his caliber. Bruce was less than enthused. He didn’t want to build weapons. So, sometimes he fuddled the calculations. 

He knew he shouldn’t have, but he did anyway. Not often enough for Stark to suspect anything. Or, at least he didn’t think so. 

He was mindlessly doing a calculation, incorrectly of course, when Stark snatched the piece of paper out from underneath his pen. He startled, shooting a bewildered glance at the other man, who was scanning his paper. 

“You trying to sabotage me, Banner?” Stark asked, expression dark as he stared at the curly-haired man. Bruce suddenly felt as if he had been sucker-punched. 

“At first I thought you were just out of practice. Then I noticed a pattern. Funny how you can do the same problem three times, get it right the first time, and then get an answer way off the other two times.”

His voice was like steel, and Bruce didn’t really remember what he had just detailed. He hadn’t really thought about the problems he was doing. He had just done them— albeit, some of them wrong. How foolish of him to not notice what Stark had been doing. 

“Why, Banner?”

Bruce flinched, dropping his gaze to the table as he muttered, “I-I can’t help you build weapons, Stark. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

He’d built weapons for the military before the incident. Then he’d turned himself into a weapon like a fool.

Stark still looked pissed. After a deep inhale, he pointed towards the corner of the room. 

“Just...stand there. I need to go through and fix some things. It shouldn’t take long.” 

Bruce was pretty sure that Stark forgot he was standing there, because five hours later, Stark was still blasting rock music and had moved way past calculations. Bruce was busy ignoring the pain in his legs trying to make sure that his knees didn’t lock up. The last thing he needed was Stark getting even angrier at him because he disobeyed orders. 

Another two hours passed, and Bruce couldn’t feel his legs. Stark was now passed out over his work table, snoring loudly. The music was off.

Finally, the tremble of his legs was too much, and Bruce had to sit. A stifled groan of pain escaped his mouth as he made to do so, and for some reason, that was the noise that awoke the sleeping man. 

Despite the protests of his half-crouched limbs, Bruce quickly stood back up as Stark let out a yawn and scratched at his face. 

“Fuck, how long was I asleep?”

“Two hours and fourteen minutes, sir,” came a soft, British voice from around the ceiling. Some sort of security guard, maybe? One who watched Stark’s every move through a camera, or something? 

“Ugh,” Stark mumbled and blinked his eyes open. “Banner go back to his cage?”

“No, sir. He is still in the corner that you directed him to seven hours ago.” 

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Stark said as he turned around. Sarcasm dripped from his tone as he said, “I take it you have legs of steel?”

“I was just doing as ordered,” Bruce tersely replied. 

“Just like with the math, huh?” 

“To be fair, Stark, you only said that you wanted me to work through some calculations for you. You never said you wanted them done correctly.”

Stark scoffed a little, lip quirking up for a split second. “God, you’re so snarky sometimes. Why do you hide this under complacency?”

Bruce did not return the smile. “Because if I’m snarky, you want to play games with me. Then I have the chance to screw up, and you can punish me.” _Like you did today._ “Or ship me back to Ross. If I’m complacent and quiet, you leave me alone.” 

Nothing bad ever happened to him in his cage, for the most part. It was a place to rest. To recuperate. Problems only arose when he left. 

“I didn’t think my company was that bad. And I already told you. No punishments.” The billionaire's expression was one of nonchalance, but his tone seemed a bit off. Bruce had the feeling he had insulted him. “You’re always free to decline.”

For some reason, this remark sent green rippling up the shorter man’s shoulders. 

For months, Ross had tormented him. He had shocked him, burned him, drowned him, slapped him, drugged him, degraded him, and done all sorts of shit to him. Ross didn’t give a fuck how many times Bruce said no. Ross was going to do whatever he wanted to even if Bruce didn’t want to. It got to the point where saying “No” was just another humiliation he could add to all the other ones. Saying no made things worse. 

Now Stark was here and saying that Bruce had the power to _decline?_ What, so he could do the same thing? When Bruce says no to being taken to the lab to help, what would Stark do? All the things that Ross did? Or would he begin to implement his own designs? Sleeker. More efficient. More painful. Better yet, would he include Betty in his plots? 

The only no Bruce had to say to that was “No thank you.” 

“Please let me go back to my room, Stark,” he managed through gritted teeth. He didn’t dare look at Stark. The other would surely see the venom in his gaze if he did so.

“No.”

Bruce’s head shot up at the reply. The bearded man was leaned against the lab table, a smirk painted across his face. 

“See how easy it is, Banner? Now you say it.” He strode over, stood in Bruce’s personal space, and ordered, “Get on the floor and lick my shoes.”

The venom only grew, throbbing in the back of his head as green spread to his fingertips. If Stark noticed, he gave no mention. Bruce and the Other Guy snarled in tandem. Stark held his ground, refusing to back down.

“Lick my shoes, Banner. You heard me!” he barked in the face of the shorter man. 

Bruce felt his already poor control slip slightly. If he didn’t back down, this would soon be a match between the Other Guy and Stark. The one good (worst) thing about Ross’ shock collars was that a single beep had both Banner and the beast retreating. Not that the Other Guy had anywhere to really retreat to, trapped in Bruce’s head with the aid of all sorts of drugs.

Stark didn’t do drugs anymore, though, which meant that the only thing standing between the _stupid_ genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, and certain death under a giant, green fist was Bruce.

Then he was shoved, and suddenly there was nothing standing between Stark and certain death under a giant, green fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. The next chapter should be out soon, hopefully. I'm also working on some more experimental pieces, so look out for those in the coming months.
> 
> Comments and kudos aren't required, but they really, really make my day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally so tired right now. I don't know what to put here. What do people usually put here?
> 
> Enjoy the chapter?
> 
> CW: Implied/referenced torture.

He woke up in his cell, head swimming.

The door was still open. He tried not to feel the twisted disappointment that rushed over him. He'd have thought Stark would see his game was useless and bad and finally give it up.

Where was Stark, anyway? Bruce struggled to remember, feeling sluggish. They had been working on the lab. He'd messed up. Stark had pushed him, the other guy had come out. He felt the blood leave his face. The Other Guy had come out. Stark had been there. What if the body of the engineer lay crumpled in his lab and the army was on its way already? He needed to find a place to hide, a place to stay safe. He needed to avoid capture.

He tossed weak legs over the side of the bed. His stomach roared with hunger, head throbbing to an unheard beat. He grabbed his blanket, wrapping it around him in an attempt to save himself some dignity. Not that he had any.

Bruce took a few shaky steps in the direction of the door. His bones ached. He was tired and the ground looked like a pretty nice place to nap. He needed to find a safe place first. No place was safe. Stark’s cameras were everywhere. They would find him in minutes.

He let out a quivering sigh that sounded more like a sob. It couldn’t be a sob. He hadn’t cried in so long. He wouldn’t let the pain and emptiness after a transformation be what did him in. He wouldn’t let Stark see his tears, if the man was even alive.

However, he didn’t make it any further than the door before he stumbled, tripping over his blanket, and fell. He bit his lip to prevent from crying out as discomfort rippled through his body at nothing more than the sensation of the cold floor. The room was too bright, the machines too loud. Never had a transformation been this bad. Perhaps it was because the last time he had been the other guy had been many, many months ago. Or perhaps Stark had spoiled him and he was getting soft. Regardless of what it was, he was useless.

He curled him into a fetal position, pulling the blanket around him to the best of his ability. They were going to find him down there, out in the open, and he would be too weak to resist. As he lay there, he faded in and out for what may have been several minutes or several hours before he finally heard footsteps. They were rushed, running towards him. He just curled up tighter as if that would protect him, as if that had ever protected him.

“Banner, are you okay?”

He cringed away from both the sound and the sudden warm touch to his neck that accompanied it.

“Don’t touch me,” he croaked like he could stop them, like he had a single ounce of control over the situation. They complied anyway, at least for a second.

“Banner, buddy, you good? What do you need?”

Bruce let out an indecipherable grumble at the voice. Hands were on his face again, someone pulling his eyelid up to shine a bright light in his eyes. He blinked, then snarled and lashed out. He heard the light clatter to the ground, but he was sure his actions had hurt himself more than them.

“Allllright. It’s fine. Here’s what we’re gonna do, big guy. You’re gonna take a shower to get you back into things and I will call a doctor to make sure you don’t die on me. Then you’ll get some nice warm food and get you wrapped in some blankets or something.”

Bruce’s head was now throbbing to the voice of Tony Stark, Merchant of Death. He would have asked how he even managed to survive if his sluggish brain had decided to focus on that part of the situation. Instead, still slumped against the ground, he muttered, “I can’t die. I’ve tried, they’ve tried...I think I tried harder than them.”

“That’s definitely not a concerning statement at all, Banner,” Stark said lightly. He was touching Bruce again, squeezing his shoulder. The curly-haired man couldn’t be bothered to stop him.

“Damaged goods, Stark,” was all he replied.

* * *

Doctor King was incredibly nonchalant. She didn’t ask Stark anything about Bruce’s presence, didn’t say a word about the military health files that he was handed, didn’t even blink when told that blood tests were forbidden. She didn’t ask Bruce anything outside of the normal doctor-y stuff, told him to do the normal doctor-y things, and proceeded to tell his results to Stark before leaving. Bruce wondered how much he had paid her and how many NDAs she had to sign.

“Physically, he’s almost fine. He seems dehydrated, so make sure to give him plenty of fluids. And some food, while you’re at it. His stomach is audibly growling,” Dr. King said from the other room, talking to Stark about Bruce’s results. No point in talking to someone who had no power to do anything about the condition of his health, right? Everything was in the hands of the engineer.

Bruce wished that Stark would give him some water. His mouth just felt drier at the mere mention of the clear liquid, though he felt a touch of saliva began to form at the thought of something edible to soothe his cramping stomach.

If Stark would be that merciful. If he decided not to, it wasn’t as if Bruce wouldn’t heal eventually.

By the time he tuned his ear back to the conversation between the doctor and the billionaire, he was shooing her onto the elevator and out of the building. He went up with her and came back down alone. Then he entered the room and stared at Bruce in a rather scrutinizing manner.

“So...I’m going to go run you a shower ‘cause I realized you're kinda stinky, no offense,” Stark said.

Bruce wasn’t sure how often the other man showered, but he always smelled like very rich cologne and oil. The curly-haired man tried to keep his personal hygiene to the best of his ability with a sink. Stark had let him shower once before, the day he had gotten those new clothes. He had no idea how long ago that had been. He’d been trying his best to week time, but with his sleeping schedule on the fritz and no recollection of the date he was purchased, he estimated he had been there for about three weeks.

Two showers in three weeks was a good shower record for the time being, though, considering that the only time he ever got hosed down with Ross was when his curls were rust-red and matted with blood. If it was too matted, they would clip his hair, choppy and short. He hated it. They would shave his beard then too. Stark didn’t make him shave, though he had done it nonetheless.

Bruce realized he had been staring rather blankly at the man for a moment too long. He slowly nodded.

“What do you want to eat once you finish?”

Bruce blinked. Stark was asking him what he wanted to eat? He felt a twinge of suspicion.

“I’ll eat anything, Stark,” he answered truthfully. Stark snorted.

“I know you’ll eat anything. I’m asking you what you _want_ to eat.”

Bruce thought about it for a moment. Shrugged a little. Whatever Stark would gain from this would be a mystery to him. “Tacos?”

“Hard or soft shell?”

Bruce just shrugged again. It didn’t matter to him as long as it was food. Stark let out a dramatic sigh.

“I guess I’ll just choose myself. Go shower, Banner.”

* * *

Stark’s water was always warm no matter how far Bruce turned the handle. It was a little frustrating. He settled for scrubbing his too-tight feeling skin until he was too tired to continue on. Then he slid down the tile walls and sat directly under the shower stream, knees drawn to his chest. The splat of water on the ground was rhythmic, almost soothing. He missed rain. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and imagined hard enough he could pretend he was sitting in the rain on a Friday afternoon, the wind rustling his hair as fat drops _plinked_ against his skin. He took a deep breath, liberated from the chains that bound him and hooks that cut him.

His illusion was broken by a call of “Banner! You gonna shower for the next hour?”

Just like that, he was shackled once more. He slowly opened his eyes, got up, and turned off the water.

* * *

To his surprise, when he returned to his cage, Stark was there sitting on his bed, a bored expresión on his face as he stared at his phone. Upon noting Bruce’s presence, his countenance brightened slightly and he slipped his phone in his jeans pocket.

“Hey, Banner. I was thinking we could head out together.”

Bruce frowned. “What’s the point?” he asked. “By the time that you fixed the dosage for the sedatives, administered it, and _managed_ to muzzle me—“ he would be damned if he would allow that damn thing to go anywhere near his mouth again, sedated or not, “— and restrained me in an appropriate manner, you could have gotten those tacos three times.”

Stark’s expression slowly twisted as he spoke before setting on a look that basically screamed murder. Bruce felt a chill make its way down his spine and he decided it would be a good idea to promptly shut his mouth Then, the other man scoffed and said, “I feel like that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say and all of it was about me dehumanizing you. I know my word means nothing to you, but none of that is going to happen. None of it.”

Stark shook his head fiercely before getting to his feet. He took a step toward Bruce, who took a step back in return. Stark didn’t step closer, much to his pleasure. “What’s actually going to happen,” the engineer began, eyes burning, “is you’re going to get in my car, I’m going to blast music, we’re going to the taco place, and maybe having an amazing meal in the park depending on the weather, then returning back here so you can have an epic nap. And if you don’t want to go or don’t like something, you’ll use your two-lettered n-word, which— small reminder— is the word ‘No.’ Alright?”

Bruce studied the ground. Stark’s left shoelace was untied. That shoelace probably cost more than his sweats, he thought giddily. The idea was ridiculous and hopefully untrue.

The room was tense, too tense. Stark was crackling with energy. Bruce just ducked his head further. He shouldn’t have made such a bold accusation.

“Banner, I’m gonna need a verbal answer here.”

“Okay,” he muttered.

A clap dispelled some of the choking tension. If Stark noticed Bruce’s flinch, he said nothing about it. “Great. Let’s roll.”

Stark did indeed blast music the whole time. It was rock and it was very loud. Bruce didn’t like it, but he said nothing against it. He was half-tuning the music out, focused on staring out the window instead. He didn’t know what city they were in, but it was big. The first fifteen minutes or so had been relatively quiet, but now he saw a number of buildings. He almost wished Stark would slow down a little so he could examine the scenery more closely, but the other man was speeding.

They rolled to a stop in a parking lot of some rather generic-looking restaurant. “I’ll be a second,” Stark said and got out of the car. Bruce was all alone. He paused. Looked around. Tried the door. It was unlocked. He imagined himself throwing open the door and making a run for freedom. Then reality smacked him in the head and he realized it was nothing more than a test of loyalty. He removed his hand from the door before he had any more bad ideas. He wasn’t going back to the army any faster than he had to.

“Oh. You’re still here,” were the first words Stark uttered upon returning.

“Where else am I supposed to be?” Bruce asked.

Stark didn’t answer. He just looked to the sky, sighed, and said, “Clouds look a bit heavy. We’re heading home.”

Bruce had the feeling he disappointed Stark. He hoped there would be no repercussions.

It rained on the way back.

* * *

Stark left him alone for the rest of the day. He took his tacos and left. Bruce ate, slept, ate, then slept again.  
He woke up from a dreamless night to an engineer looming over him. “Banner, I need you to look over some files,” he said.

Bruce silently followed a rather subdued Stark to the lab. Files, Bruce’s files, laid scattered across the tables. “I have to see Ross later today,” Stark explained. “I figured I’d study up a little.”

The curly-haired man’s stomach fluttered and twisted uneasily and he didn’t think it was the Mexican food. He wrung his hands, then crossed his arms, staring warily at the goateed man.

‘It says here,” Stark continued, “that you heal from an extremely deep incision in about two weeks? How deep?”

Deep enough for the head scientist to stick her fingers deep into his wound and touch his bone. He had the courtesy of being deeply drugged, but he still remembered just how vile it felt.

“Do you remember?” the businessman pressed, and Bruce shook his head slowly.“Damn scientists can’t log any of their info. That’s their only job,” Stark snapped.

They would have to recreate it, wouldn’t they? It was only a small consolation that Stark would probably like it less than those military scientists. The results would be skewed unless he was sedated once more. Stark was pouring over papers, dark eyes skimming the sheets, quick fingers tight around a pen as he jotted down things on a separate sheet of paper.

“Let’s just do it again.” Bruce found the words falling from his mouth before he could even try to monitor them. Stark’s head shot up. “You’ll have to sedate me or else things will get a little...catastrophic...with the Other Guy, as I’m sure you know,” he warned, keeping his tone light, though he wanted to scream to the hills about injustice before swiftly reminding himself that monsters did not get justice. They got a swift silver blade to the throat.

“Excuse me, what?”

“I can help, Stark,” Bruce quickly reassured. An idea was forming in his head. Maybe he could get something out of this too. “I can be good. You’re going to see Ross today, right? I just want Betty’s safety assured." Stark had yet to say anything of it in the duration he had held Bruce. The man knew he needed to cover all bases before he couldn't negotiate any longer. Not that Stark would have to keep his word, but a verbal confirmation in the very least would rest Bruce's soul a bit. She had so much to live for. He had a future of lab tables. He would be the best lab rat there ever was, granted that she stayed out of his captor's plots. " _Please_.”

Stark was not pleased.

In fact, he looked a little green himself.

In fact, he barely made it to the trashcan before he threw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos much appreciated, though not mandatory. Thank you for all the support this story has been receiving. 
> 
>  
> 
> See you all later, 
> 
> Red.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.  
> It has been...two weeks since I wrote Bruce Banner angst.
> 
> CW: Torture, dehumanization (neither in explicit detail), some lowkey Stockholm Syndrome tbh
> 
> Enjoy~

If Ross came to the building that day, Bruce didn't see hide nor hair of him. After that, Stark really kept his distance.

Bruce didn’t understand. He didn’t know how to feel about it. It was almost as if he had ruined the non-existent relationship between himself and Stark, but he didn’t know exactly what had triggered it. Perhaps Stark had wanted him to run, to feel the thrill of the hunt. But that didn’t seem right. Perhaps it had been Bruce’s offer. Cooperation had been unheard of from him in the past. Ross had never gotten him to cooperate. Maybe Stark had just been surprised. So surprised that he had felt sickened. That also didn’t make sense either.

Stark seemed different. Subdued. Defeated. Disappointed. He didn’t quip, his smiles were half-hearted. He didn’t taunt anymore. He showed up, delivered food, and left. Lab days were a thing of the past.

Bruce sighed, turning over in his bed. He shouldn’t have cared. He didn’t care. Why should he care? He should have been grateful, but he wasn’t because he was too busy trying to figure out where he had messed up.

On day four, or so, he woke up to Stark standing over him once more. It was dark. Stark was silently staring at him, an unidentifiable expression on his face. A large duffel bag was slung over his shoulder. “We gotta go, Banner,” he said. Bruce didn’t move. “Now.”

They went to the lab. The clock read 1:46 am. “Stay here. I’m starting the car. Don’t touch anything.”

There was a box on the table. Stark had left his bag. Bruce knew he had to look. He could only get in more trouble from here. He unzipped the bag. He paled. Quickly zipped it back up and took a few hasty steps back, nearly tripping over his own feet. He didn’t even care what the box held. He knew what this was.

Just then, Stark re-entered the room, grabbing his bag.

“Get that box for me, will you, Banner? And hurry it up a little, yeah I have a demonstration tomorrow afternoon.”

He registered himself following the order unthinkingly. His mind was racing, his stomach sinking like an anchor. Terror gripped his soul, but here he was, sitting in the passenger seat. Stark glanced at him. Smiled a little. It was as saccharin as the rest of the smiles that the engineer had given him in the days before. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I wouldn’t just wake you if it wasn’t important. Just try to relax, big guy.” Bruce didn’t reply and Stark turned on the radio.

They drove long into the night. There was barely any traffic out that late. The stars were obscured by the dark clouds. The only light in the car was the light of Stark’s phone and the blinking of the low gas light. Bruce closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. He knew he never could due to the jackrabbit beat of his heart.

They made a turn. The car slowed to a stop. Bruce could feel a scrutinizing gaze on him trying to gauge how deeply he was asleep before the other man opened the door and exited the car.

The moment he was gone, dark brown eyes popped open and surveyed the surroundings. They were at a gas station. The road on the other side was forested and empty. There were three cars parked in front. A sheriff’s police car, a black Camry, and a third of unknown type that was a burgundy color. It was 3:37. Stark was nowhere to be seen. The door was unlocked. It was a chance he had to take. If he could get to the forest, then things would be fine.

His feet touched the ground. He took a few steps, eyes wide. It was different being inside the car and outside. From the inside, he could only see. Outside, he could smell the gas and feel the breeze. He could hear the crickets and taste the dust from the ground. He shivered at the sensation. He suddenly didn't know where to go or what to do. If he could just sit here and enjoy his freedom one last time…

Then Stark walked back out of the gas station. Bruce froze. _Run_ , one part of his mind screamed at him. _Fight!_ the other roared. Bruce just stood there. The most he managed was a few staggering steps back until the other man was upon him. Whiskey-colored eyes danced over his form, then around the cars at the gas station. “What’s wrong? You’ve been more jittery than a cat on caffeine.” Stark’s stare settled over his shoulders, looking into the woods. “You gonna run? That would suck a little.” He said it so nonchalantly too. As if he didn’t care. His body language was clear enough if his tone wasn’t. He was upset.

Bruce didn’t answer. The ground looked very interesting.

“I know I’m asking for a lot here, Banner, but I kinda need you to trust me. I thought this would be a fun activity we could do together.”

A familiar feeling was rising up in his gut. Resentment. He swallowed it. Nodded. Stark clapped him on the shoulder and didn’t quite let go. His grip was firm, but not tight. “I got some chips.”

They got back into the car as if nothing had ever happened. Bruce watched the forest disappear until it was nothing but flat, open land. It was 4:25. Stark had turned off his music at some point. The moon looked bloated.

They went off the road. Stopped in the middle of a field. It was the perfect place for a transaction, wasn’t it? The engineer turned off the car, shot the shorter man a sharp grin that resembled his usual smiles. He hopped out of the car, took his duffel bag and the box from the back seat. Bruce opened the door. He didn’t move, however, not even when prompted by the other with a loud, “Come on.”

“No,” Bruce said. Stark stopped short. Turned around, an incredulous look on his face. Bruce felt as surprised as Stark felt.

“Of all the times you could have used it,” it was said with a sigh and an impatient quirk of his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You’re selling me back, aren’t you?” Before Stark would answer, he powered on. “I saw the papers. My files.” He took in an embarrassingly shaky breath. He knew this day would come, but he still wasn’t prepared for it. He found words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them.

“Ross, he kept me in a crate meant for a dog. He fed me slop once in a blue moon and sprayed me down with cold water when I smelled of rust. He kept me sedated, but I could still feel the pain of every incision, broken bone, every beating. Everything. The collar used to leave burns on my neck before they got the voltage just right enough to knock me out. And the muzzle…" he trailed off with a shudder.

One of the most miserable weeks was the one where they tested regeneration rates. Sometimes he could still feel the cold blade on his tongue. That had driven quite a few scientists away, crying of morals. Bruce thought that some of them had truly jumped in too deep. Others did it for show. Either way, those protesting got locked up or shot. Shortly after was when the muzzle was introduced. He didn’t know why it affected him so. Perhaps because it was so demeaning. Or maybe because he could see just how much more comfortable the scientists who experimented on him became when he couldn’t properly scream or beg. Just like Ross, they stopped seeing him as human, eventually. And maybe he stopped seeing himself as human.

He powered on, not daring to look at Stark's expression. "You're the first one who ever gave me a chance of humanity and persisted when I tried to reject it. I know I can do better in your ownership, I swear. You don't even have to waste resources on me. I can't die. A-and I'll be obedient! You'll never have to use Betty against me! Please don’t return me. I’ll do anything. Build weapons, if you want. I can fight back too if that makes you feel better. O-or never fight back again. Anything.”

Stark was silent for a moment, jaw muscle jumping as he stared at Bruce with those intense dark eyes. He felt like a mouse pinned to a trap, a shoe looming over his head. Stark looked away and the feeling left. The twisted expression told it all, though. He had thoroughly pissed off his captor. This was why the muzzle existed. People didn't like it when he begged, and he had regrettably never really learned to shut his mouth no matter how many times anyone tried to beat it into him

"Actually, I told Ross no."

"What?"

"When he came to visit. I told him he couldn't have you back.” Stark shrugged in a noncommittal manner, looking away for a second.

“And that you were clearly a person, a human, smart and feeling and snarky and that he had no right to be experimenting on you. I only asked for your incision results because I had initially planned to lie and say you had escaped. Then I would give him some fake updated files and shoo him away. But then you did that thing that you do where you stare at me with those big brown eyes and I feel like a monster. Well, more of a monster than I know I am. It's one thing to build weapons. It's another thing to torture someone in the name of ‘science.’” Stark took in a deep breath, his gaze returning to Bruce.

“So I said _‘fuck it! Screw you, Ross.’_ As long as I’m around, you're never seeing him again and if he ever so much as sneers as you, I'll have his entire 'department' under flame. Why? Because I'm Tony Fucking Stark and I can."

His mind was racing. Half of what Stark said had yet to register. “He’ll ruin you,” was all Bruce could possibly manage after that speech.

A sad-looking smile flashed across Stark’s face for a second. “Of course the first thing you’d do is express concern for someone else. Me, of all people. The guy who bought you. I had planned to sell you back, too. At first. I don’t usually say sorry. But uh-“

 _“Don't apologize._ You saved me. _Thank you._ " There was the other half of Stark's statement starting to sink in. As long as he stayed with the other man, he would never see Ross again? Never have to face such a degree of cruelty again? Never have to endure the muzzle and restraints again? He felt tears in his eyes and looked down to wipe them away. Stark looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"I am many things, Banner. Savior, I am not," the dark-haired man stated quietly, then in a louder voice said, "How bout we dry those tears and have a good old fashioned campfire. Your files will be our fuel."

Bruce had never had such fun in his life.

* * *

The drive back was awkward, to say the least. It was obvious Stark wanted to talk about something. Bruce was silent, his mind in the clouds. He felt giddy. He was walking on air. When they returned, it was morning, the early rays of the sun just beginning to peek above the horizon.

The car stopped. Stark turned to Bruce. Stuck his hand out. “It's good to meet you, Dr. Banner. Your work on anti-electron collisions is unparalleled. And I'm a huge fan of the way you lose control and turn into an enormous green rage monster.”

Bruce shook it. Smiled wryly. “Thanks.”

The short walk to the inside of the house was considerably warmer than the ride back. At least until the doors opened to a man with a bald head and a greying beard leaning on one of Stark’s bar tables. The man turned around, cold eyes immediately zeroing in on Bruce. The curly-haired man felt himself shudder, the Other Guy letting out an uneasy grumble.

“Obie! What are you doing down here?” Stark said with a grin, crossing the threshold. Bruce reluctantly walked in after him. Obie didn’t return the grin.

“My boy, why do I have General Thaddeus Ross of the United States military contacting me and screaming that you cheated him out of a weapon’s contract?”

“I didn’t cheat him,” Stark countered, crossing his arms. “He sold me the weapon. I just decided not to sell it back.”

“Why?”

Bruce was sure that the engineer didn’t see it, but there was a predatory glint in Obie’s eyes. He didn’t like it.

“The weapon was inhumane. Gamma bomb. The results would have been disastrous. Not even I could work with it.”

“Since when do we care about the results? We’re warmongers, Tony! Weapons are profit-“

Stark swiftly cut Obie off. “Which is why we shouldn’t give the government a bomb that would bring an end to everything and everyone in a ten mile radius of where its dropped.”

“Tony,” Obie growled, and Bruce took a solid step back. The man’s attention shifted to him for a split second and suddenly, Bruce knew. The swift expression of disgust and greed was clear as day. Obie knew that he was the weapon, but was saying nothing. Why?

“We can talk about it later, alright? I’ve got a flight in a couple of hours and I want to catch some Zs before then.”

For a moment, as the bald man towered over Stark, he thought there was going to be a spat. But instead, Obie relaxed, breaking the intense stare that the two of them had. “Of course, Tony. By the way, who’s your friend?”

The hesitation was brief. Then, Tony said, “Charles Jones. Pepper said I needed a lab assistant so I would sleep more, so I figured I might look into it.”

“Hello Mr. Jones. Obadiah Stane, CEO of Stark Industries.”

“Pleasure.”

They didn’t shake hands.

After a beat, Stane nodded and snapped his suit. “I’ll be off, then. Get some sleep.” As he passed Stark, he patted him on the shoulder, then walked out.

The moment he was gone, both scientists let out a loud exhale of relief.

“Christ, Ross is such a piece of work,” Stark said at the said time that Bruce said, “He knows you’re lying.”

Stark blinked. Then shrugged. “Maybe, but what’s he going to do about it? I’ll be gone for the better part of a day tomorrow. He won’t be able to do anything. JARVIS has eyes on the entire building. You’ll be safe.”

“You think he would do something?”

“Well, no, of course not,” Stark replied quickly. It didn’t sound convincing. “Sleep time. Dibs on the bed.

Bruce’s night was a restless one, and he was still awake when Stark left the morning. He was still awake when the power went out. He was still awake when men all dressed in black stormed the building, and then he wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, did you think this would end happily? 
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated (though not mandatory)! They really make my day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, can you believe we're 4 chapters away from the end?
> 
> I hope you all are all staying safe through quarantine. 
> 
>  
> 
> CWs: Bruce gets the shit beat out of him.  
> (AKA 1400 words of pure whump/angst.)

When he woke up, he wished he hadn’t. He was restrained. On the ground— a cold, stone ground. A cell. He wriggled around for a moment, trying to gain his bearings in the dark and was rewarded with a vicious kick in the ribs. His breath was stolen from him and he let out a gasp and a cry. 

“Where-“ he rasped, and they slammed another foot into his side. Then he was punched and kicked and kicked and kicked and by the time that it was over Bruce was sure that a few ribs were broken and that speaking was a bad idea. He had no idea who had taken him. He would normally suspect Ross, but if it was Ross, the general would have gloated already. 

Instead, his abusers were quiet and ruthless, and when they were done they dragged his limp body down the hallway and into a room the size of a broom closet. It was pitch black, but Bruce hadn’t been able to see much of anything the entire time.

He didn’t even know what he had done, why he was being punished. He had no semblance of time in the closet. His entire body throbbed in pain. Especially his neck— they had a heavy, heavy collar locked around his throat. He didn’t even have enough space to try to shift to a more comfortable position or to kick at the door. “Hello?” he called. It echoed around him, endlessly loud. There was no answer. “What did I do?” There was no answer. 

He stared into the dark void. Was anyone there? Were they watching him? 

He must have drifted— or maybe not. It was hard to tell. All he could see was darkness. It didn’t even matter if he closed his eyes or not. He heard the door click open and saw a glimmer of dim light. Then they grabbed him by his bound ankles and dragged him out into the hallway for the second beating of the day. 

He tried to ask them where he was again. He tried to ask them why he was being punished. One of them had a stick this time and cracked it so hard against the side of Bruce’s face that the wood splintered. 

He would still feel the sting hours(?) later when he was in the closet again. 

They did this three more times under an unknown time span. Bruce tried counting minutes, but he couldn’t predict it. It had to have been days. He was tired, thirsty, and hungry and his body had never stopped hurting. It had to have been days. 

The door opened again and Bruce couldn’t help the flinch. They dragged him out again. Took him into another room, this one with a table. Propped him up in a seat. And then they cut his restraints off. 

He sat, still, and quiet, and expected someone to attack him. The people in black placed a glass of water in front of him. Bruce didn’t touch it. They didn’t touch him. 

He reached for it. It was smooth against his shaky hands. Did they want him to drink? Evidently not, because the moment that he brought it to his mouth they smacked his hand with a stick. The glass shattered and just like that they were forcing Bruce to the ground and restraining him again. 

They dragged him back to the broom closet. 

The next two times they brought him back out was to beat him again, not to drink. He didn’t understand. He was sure if he could see his skin, it would be mottled black and blue. 

The next time they brought him water, he tried perhaps not using his hands. Maybe it was a humiliation tactic. He knocked the glass over and got a singular drop of water before they were dragging him back. 

The third time he stared at them for a minute. He couldn’t decipher their expressions in the dim lighting. “What do you want me to do?” he asked in a plaintive tone. They didn’t answer. Bruce smashed the glass. They dragged him back to the broom closet. 

He was beaten three more times before he had a chance to encounter the water scenario again. He didn’t dare to look up at his captors, tongue darting out to lick a split lip as he cradled his broken wrist. He sat there for a while. If he got this wrong, was it another beating? Regardless they would put the restraints back on him and his wrist was in red-hot agony. Why wouldn’t they talk to him? Couldn’t he just have some sort of hint? 

He didn’t know how long he just sat there, staring at the glass of water, wracking his mind for ideas. Then he quietly, hesitantly, asked, “Can I— may I drink the water?”

“Go ahead, Dr. Banner.”

He hastily grabbed the cup and drank it before they could change their mind. It was brief. It was good. The next time he left the broom closet, they put a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Bruce had always been told he was a quick learner. 

Stomach full and thirst quenched to an extent, he sat in the darkness of his little broom closet and wondered what exactly the point of all this was. He wondered when the next beating was. He wondered how Stark would react when he came home from his meeting and saw his lovely suite in disarray from Bruce’s half transformation. 

He thought he dozed off again. When he woke up, his wrist was healed and his ribs hurt considerably less. The door opened. He was expecting a beating, but instead, they unlocked the cuffs around his ankles. They led him down a hallway, then another hallway. He could see a room lit with fluorescent light. They were leading him there. He felt a sense of foreboding and was almost positive that it was time to meet a metal table.

It was a bathroom instead. An actual bathroom. Shower, toilet, sink. No mirror. All his dark-clothed captors left except one, who stood guard at the door with an impassive look on his face. Now that he could see, he saw his skin was all shades of bruised, clothes dirtied and bloodied. He couldn’t do this every day. He would find a way to die. He needed to escape. 

The door opened and the guard turned his attention to the door to receive a pair of clothes seemingly meant for Bruce. The brown-haired man quickly looked around the bathroom trying to look for anything he could use against the guard just to wince back as something was thrown at him. 

“Washcloth,” the guard said as a form of explanation, bland gaze fixed on the piece of cloth that had just fallen to the ground. 

Bruce kept his voice as steady as possible as he asked, “How am I supposed to shower if I can’t undress?”

The guard stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Come here.” 

His hands were only left free long enough for him to use the facilities. It was enough time for him to try to fight back. He elbowed the guard in the stomach, pushed him to the ground, and unsuccessfully tried to open the bathroom door. It was locked from the outside. The guard retaliated by calmly picking all 128 pounds of Bruce Banner up, dropping him in the shower, and handcuffing one hand to the shower rail. The washcloth was pushed towards him again. 

“Shower,” the guard said, and then cold, high-pressure water slammed into Bruce’s achy body. It was shitty. It was a shower. 

They beat him afterward before he even had the chance to get dressed. Bare fists against naked skin. This time he felt his collarbone snap.

Back to the closet it was. 

It tore at Bruce’s mind. The lack of routine. He could never figure out what it was going to be. Sometimes they beat him after he ate, even if he asked first. Sometimes he didn’t even get to eat. Sometimes he would have multiple water or meal times a day. Was it even a day? How long had he been there, trapped in the darkness? The only interaction he ever had was with his guards and they didn’t talk to him. Who had taken him? Where was Stark? What were his punishments for? He would spend hours(?) slowly replaying every interaction in his head after he was beaten, but he could never figure out what was the trigger. 

He was sore, it was dark, and they showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

Thus, a new chapter of Bruce’s life began. 

(He called it the “Pensive State” because he had plenty of time to think in the broom closet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun, huh? I'm sorry.
> 
> Comments and kudos are not mandatory, though they do make my day! Even if I don't get to every one of them because I'm a forgetful bastard, it still makes me smile.


End file.
